Incise
by roseblush
Summary: Taking off where GOF ended. Harry is numb; he copes by spilling his own blood; blood so coveted by the Dark Lord. Relatively in-canon character-wise; I took advantage of Harry's angst in the fifth book. Rated M for self-harm and suicidal themes
1. Prologue

_'I am the wound and I am the blade; both the torturer and he who is flayed.'_

* * *

**PROLOGUE**

It was midsummer and the heat was oppressive- it bore down upon Little Whinging, permeating the foundations of each house. Petunia Dursley of number four, Privet Drive, had taken to running the air conditioner full-throttle, day and night, with no concern for ill-effects of energy consumption. So it was when Harry Potter stepped out into the late afternoon, he was smacked by the wall of heat as though it were a physical barrier. Briefly he hesitated on the threshold- tolerate the warmth, or tolerate the Dursleys? The decision was made for him when his Uncle Vernon screamed bloody murder from the sitting room; 'Close the damn door boy, it's a hellfire out there!'

Stepping smartly over the low-growing hedge on the perimeters of the Dursley residence, Harry heaved a sigh of relief. He was no longer under the blood ward protection. Here, a Death Eater might strike at any given time- Voldemort himself might turn up- and he'd be done with it. Done with the nightmares- the guilt of watching Cedric Diggory die, over and over… done with the inertia that came hand in hand with summertime at Privet Drive. Done with waiting by the window for days only to have Hedwig bring him the same answer- _Dumbledore said we're not allowed to tell you much_. And no word from the man himself- not after having witnessed the rebirth of the darkest wizard of the age; after having seen his friend murdered, and having barely escaped with his own life. Dumbledore hadn't bothered to see how Harry was coping.

He walked up Magnolia Crescent, headed toward the copse of woodland he spent most of his days meandering about. It was small, barely a half-hectare, but the foliage was dense enough so that he could pretend he was somewhere else. It was cooler under here, in the dark, under the still canopy- with a sigh he sank to the ground and lay there, hands over his heart, eyes closed. He had surmised, from Ron and Hermione's hastily penned letters, that the two of them were staying together- at The Burrow, he supposed. At first he'd been angry, but he didn't have the energy for it. He just felt sad. It went beyond boredom after a month at Privet Drive; beyond his frustration at being kept in the dark. He felt inherently sad. He had seen death, and death had infected him, as it were. He could think of little else.

'Did you see him squirm?'

Harry wrinkled his nose. Damn. It was Gordon, one of Dudley's cronies, which meant his cousin had braved the heatwave on his standard 'bashing anyone who looks at me the wrong way' spree. Harry got to his feet and, in his haste, tripped over a wayward tree root. Sprawled amid the forest's debris he held himself still; with any luck they hadn't heard him.

'He deserved it, he did.' Dudley was guffawing, but the sound was growing fainter- they were walking away. Harry let out a sigh of relief and stood up, carefully this time. It was then that he noticed he was bleeding.

He'd grazed his elbows- blood was peppered, bright, and it stung. Where moments ago he'd felt flat, he was now exhilarated. The effect was instantaneous. When he saw the blood, his body reacted accordingly- blood meant danger, danger meant energy was required- adrenaline coursed through his veins. This acted on Harry like electricity; he touched his grazes, eyes bright- he was back in the graveyard again, danger was afoot and he relished it.

Harry had hovered, ear pressed to his bedroom door; a guttural snore from his cousin was his cue. Bounding down the stairs two at a time he had fumbled, sightless, in the cutlery draw, like a child playing lucky dip.

He sat now on his bed, clutching his prize; a filleting knife, silver and tapered. Instinctively he held aloft his forearm, and traced the scar left from Wormtail's dagger. Voldemort had needed_ his_ blood, used it to restore his body; this blood was sacred. It was only fitting to start at this limb.

Sucking in his breath Harry put pressure behind the blade, put it did not break the skin. He lifted it and swiftly bought it down, slicing in neat little lines. They were shallow, like cat scratches. But as he went on it was easier; he hacked at his forearm til it was messily hatched, but he wasn't spilling real blood, this was just capillaries. In his mind's eye he saw Snape, gloating; 'not much of a Gryffindor now, are we, Potter?'

Incensed, Harry traced the forearm deliberately, slowly, heavily; he watched the blade sink into flesh and felt the well of blood in its wake. The cut gaped, and more blood was coming; and here it was- the panic as his body realised it was in mortal danger. His heart raced ahead of time and he felt dizzy. Harry slashed, twice, three times, four times more; each cut deeper than the last. There was blood, so much blood; a metallic tinge in his nostrils and a ring in his ears; he raised closed eyes skyward and revelled in the vertigo.


	2. Grimmauld Place

Harry whiled away the following days hidden in the woods. Each morning he set off, the knife tucked into the back of his jeans, and meandered over to the pocket of forest. There he would map out the course of his veins; pretend he was somewhere else. The marks from the first night were closed over now, purplish and criss-crossed; the forearm had no recognisable stretch of skin. He'd ruined the flesh past repair, and took a savage pleasure in that knowledge. These would be scars he'd given himself; battle marks of a different sort.

Avoiding the Dursleys was easy enough. He forwent dinner each night, not having much of an appetite, and his aunt and uncle didn't bat an eyelid over his elected starvation. Despite his minimal food intake, and despite having lost a substantial amount of blood in half a week, Harry felt stronger than he had since June.

Four days after he'd first shed his own blood, Uncle Vernon came storming into his room.

'We're going out,' he announced to the room at large. Harry, who was lying on his bed gazing into oblivion, looked up and frowned.

'Huh?'

'Don't you 'huh' me, boy. We- as in, Petunia, Dudley and myself- are going out to dinner. We've been invited to _L'Avignon_, by the head chef himself. Free meal and all,' Vernon smirked at his nephew. 'Your aunt's left you out some bread. Don't make a mess, and don't wait up for us.'

Harry stared at the door after his uncle had closed it. It was a rare occasion that Harry was left on his own at Privet Drive- his guardians didn't trust him to not blow up the house. He listened to Uncle Vernon's expensive company-bought car pivot out the driveway and was on his feet, running downstairs, filleting knife in hand.

Harry filled the sink with hot soapy water and dropped in the blood-encrusted blade. He wanted to cut again, but didn't want the wounds to get infected- that would be difficult to hide from his relatives. He was just reaching for a scouring brush when there was a knock at the door.

He did a double-take, dropping the brush into the dishwater. Was he supposed to answer, or not? No. The Dursleys would kill him if they knew he'd conversed with a member of the general public, he thought with a wry smile. He turned back to the sink when he heard the front door open. Oh. They must've forgot to lock it- unless-

'Harry?'

He blinked. Standing framed in the doorway before him was none other than Remus Lupin.

'Remus! What are-'

'Excuse my haste- but there's not time to go into it at length. Suffice to say, we are both in imminent danger and must flee at once. Dumbledore's orders.' Lupin's brow furrowed as he examined Harry more closely. 'Harry, are you all right?'

'Why are we in danger?' Harry asked, and in his ears it sounded detached. He ought to be frightened, startled at the very least- but he wasn't.

'Not here, I'm afraid, Harry.' Remus's brow had furrowed at Harry's tone, but he said nothing of it. 'Where is your trunk?'

'Um- upstairs, but not packed…'

'I will wait here for you. Be quick.'

'Right…' Harry cast a side-long look at the blade which lay sunk; he felt Remus's eyes follow his and sighed. There was no way he could chance to take the blade out; what explanation could he give?

Hurtling up the stairs three at a time Harry felt a numb panic set in; not for the supposed danger he was in, but for the loss of his blade. What would he do without it? He could only assume Remus would be taking him to the Burrow, and what chance did he have of pilfering anything sufficiently sharp whilst there? And more so, how would he be able to hide his injuries- how would he be able to continue harming himself, when he'd become reliant on the bloodshed these past few days? How would he explain to Molly Weasley his lack of appetite when he'd lost at least ten pounds this month?

His trunk was packed in under five minutes- he'd had to stomp down on its contents to make room for several more layers of clothing and robes which had been scattered about his room- and he heaved it downstairs, along with his broomstick and Hedwig's cage. He leant against it now, feeling sick.

'Hedwig's off delivering a letter, I assume?' asked Lupin, tapping Harry's trunk with his wand. It vanished into thin air; next went the Firebolt and cage. 'I've just Vanished them to our destination, Harry. Now. Have you ever Apparated before?'

'I- no, I thought you had to be seventeen?'

'Quite right. But for underages, or the incapacitated, there is Side-Along Apparation. I am sure you will not object?' He waited for Harry to shake his head, then promptly said, 'Good! If you don't mind, I will have to grasp your arm, rather firmly I'm afraid. This won't be comfortable.'

And before Harry could open his mouth to protest, Lupin's hand had closed around his left forearm; he had time enough to register the slash of pain before he was hurtled, spinning, into a void. He had the sensation of being sucked through a tube, he couldn't breathe, and through it he felt the unbearable pressure on his injured arm; when he was at last released, he caught sight of a darkening sky before he sank gratefully into oblivion.

'Harry! Harry… please wake up…'

Harry's eyes flickered open; he was lying, sprawled on the pavement. Above him was Lupin, pale as he frantically scrabbled at Harry's wrist, assumedly for a pulse. Realising his charge was awake, he heaved a sigh of relief and rocked back on his knees, passing a hand over his brow.

'Harry, I need you to stand up. We're not safe here. Slowly, now, lean against me-'

Harry got to his feet, visibly shaking; he didn't know where they were, or what they were doing, or what type of danger they were in, or from whom; all he knew was that he was barely holding onto his consciousness.

'Here, Harry, I need you to read this-' Remus held out a slip of parchment with trembling fingers, and Harry was too out of sorts to question the peculiarity of this. He squinted and read the vaguely familiar writing;

_The Headquarters for The Order of the Phoenix may be found at Number 12, Grimmauld Place_

He felt himself sway, and topple sideways into Remus's waiting arms; he looked up into the stricken face, before sliding away from his senses once more.

* * *

A/N

My copy of OOTP is assunder; in about four different pieces, I believe, and none of which I can seem to find. So this is all from memory. Please excuse me if the accuracy is slightly off. Next chapter should be up in about 24 hours x


	3. Shaken

'What happened?'

'I don't know! Harry- Harry!'

'_Harry_!'

Voices swam, and Harry became aware that he was being carried; laid down now, on some padded surface; he murmured and struggled to wake fully.

'Harry- you're all right, now. Steady.'

His eyes opened and he saw, leaning over him, the misted outline of his godfather. Upon seeing Harry regain consciousness, his face broke into a wary smile. Someone- Lupin, maybe- placed Harry's glasses gently back on his face, but they did little to improve his vision. He felt dizzy, as though he might vomit; he reeled against the haze.

'Was he attacked?' asked Sirius urgently, his eyes not leaving Harry's, and Remus frowned and shook his head.

'No. Nothing like that. I took him with me using Side-Along, and when we arrived he just- collapsed…'

'Right- right, I'm going to get Dumbledore.' Sirius cast Harry one last glance, and his face was devastated; then he was up and had left the room.

Harry tried to sit up, but Lupin held a hand against his shoulder.

'Just lie still for a while,' he said gently. 'Harry, have you been ill at all?'

'I- no,' he mumbled, 'no, I haven't.' His voice was slurred, he could hear that himself, and Lupin clutched at his shoulder convulsively.

'Just stay with us, okay? Keep your eyes open, that's it.' Harry could hear the panic in his ex-Defence teacher's voice.

The door was thrown open and there stood Albus Dumbledore, garbed in resplendent wizard robes. He took one look at Harry, blinking dazedly at his Headmaster, and was at his side, a hand on his shoulder.

'What happened, Remus?' he asked softly.

Harry tuned out at Lupin again told the story; he felt better now, well enough to wonder where they were. He remembered, vaguely, the note thrust into his face by Lupin- Grimmauld Place. The Order of the Phoenix. Or had he imagined that?

'Harry, follow my wandtip, please,' Dumbledore's voice was controlled, but his brow was knitted as he flourished his Lumos-lit wand in front of Harry's face. Harry shrunk back from the light. Even in his dazed state he noted that at no point did Dumbledore make direct eye contact with him.

'Were are we?' asked Harry, and his voice cracked.

'Harry, we are at the Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix,' said Dumbledore quietly, his eyes fixed on a spot just above Harry's shoulder. 'I trust Sirius will fill you in on all you need to know.'

'What's wrong with him, Albus?' asked Remus desperately. 'I've never seen this happen.'

'It is possible for Apparation- particularly first-time Apparation- to throw someone who is physically unwell off-balance, so to speak,' said Dumbledore hesitantly. 'Harry, have you been ill these past few weeks?'

'No,' he answered, and Sirius fell onto an armchair by his feet, face cupped in his hands.

'He needs to go to Mungo's,' said Lupin quickly, talking to Dumbledore. 'If he's collapsing from Apparation-'

'Remus, you and I both know that St. Mungo's isn't a safe place for Harry right now,' said Dumbledore seriously, turning to Lupin. 'Harry was unconscious for a very brief period of time; his vitals suggest no lasting damage, and he has been able to hold a conversation. In my opinion, there is no need for a trip to the hospital. I think what he needs is a good night's sleep- I suggest someone sit with him- and to be kept under close watch these next few days.'

Remus looked for a moment as though he might argue; but he fell back, set his jaw and gave a curt nod.

'Dumbledore,' Sirius looked up, and his face was gaunt as it had been when he had first escaped Azkaban, 'are you sure- are you sure he's okay?'

'I am positive,' said Dumbledore, and he stood from his position crouched by Harry's head. 'I trust the two of you to fully inform Harry of the circumstances which lead to his being bought here… when he is rested. I will see you all very shortly.' And he inclined his head before sweeping back out of the room.

At length Harry was shown to his room- a murky chamber with what he supposed was once a splendid four-poster bed; it lay now in near ruins. Sirius gave a lazy flick of his wand and the mattress seemed to inflate; another flick, and several large white pillows appeared with a _pop_. Harry snuggled under the covers and closed his eyes, exhausted now past feeling, past thought; yet the question fell unbidden from his lips.

'Sirius, where are we?'

'This is where my parents used to live,' Sirius explained quietly. 'Slytherins, the lot of them, and pure-blood fanatics to boot. It's my place now.'

Harry nodded distractedly; the he felt Sirius's hand on his shoulder. 'You should sleep, Harry. I'll be here in the morning.'

* * *

Excuse the haste of this chapter; I thought to break it in two. The next will be up tomorrow afternoon x


	4. Revelations

It was late afternoon when Harry woke, bleary-eyed and tousle-haired. The arm he'd subjected to the little silver knife was ablaze with pain; everything seemed centred from it. Past that he felt a dull headache just behind his eyes, and the acrid tang of bile in his throat, which made him wonder if he'd vomited during the night. It was at this point he recalled- the blade in the sink, the Apparation gone askew... and Sirius.

'Where am I?' he cried out, flinging upright. The room was shaded- curtains drawn, door closed- and he seemed to be alone. His godfather's words hung like a ghost before him; _I'll be here in the morning. _So he couldn't be far.

Harry's trunk had been bought into the room; he sifted through it for clean jeans, over which he pulled a jumper- long sleeves to hide the marks. He examined them now- the herringbone pattern of slow-healing gashes, a limb now ruined beyond repair- more suited to that of a Muggle psych patient- and felt calmed. Distractedly he ran his fingers over the welted skin, peering his head around the corner of the bedroom door.

'Um- hello?'

The corridor was grimy, the walls mildewed and carpet stained and furled at the edges. He had barely set off down it when he collided headlong with his godfather.

'Harry!' Sirius cried, clutching at his shoulders. 'You're up!'

'Yeah…' Sirius was peering solicitously into Harry's face, and Harry pulled himself from his grasp. 'Look, I'm… I'm fine, Sirius. I'm so much better.'

Sirius nodded, his facial expression unchanging; then he ruffled Harry's hair and said loudly, ''Course you are, mate. Knew you'd be all right. How's breakfast sound?'

'Sounds good,' said Harry quickly. It wouldn't do to further worry his godfather.

They sat down over bowls of porridge in the open kitchen downstairs. Harry noted Sirius keeping a keen eye on him and so kept his head bowed, eyes focused on a whorl in the grain of the dark-wood table. 'So this is your parents' house?'

'It was,' said Sirius dispassionately. 'I lent it to Dumbledore to use as headquarters- 'bout the least I can do these days.'

'Headquarters? Headquarters for what?' Harry knew, in that moment, the meaning behind the phrase 'going through the motions'. He was asking the questions he was meant to ask, feigning curiosity, when he didn't care. He should, but it just wasn't there. He was blank.

'Order of the Phoenix. Dumbledore founded it, it's an organisation committed to fighting Voldemort. We were big last time round, trying to get ourselves sorted out again before… well. There's not too many of us- Remus and I, obviously, and Mad-Eye Moody- the real one, I assure you- Ron's parents, Hagrid… no-one else you'll be acquainted with, I imagine. Oh, 'cept Snape.'

Harry dropped his spoon.

'_Snape_?'

The corner of Sirius's mouth twitched. 'Yeah, Snape. Oily git. He was here last night, with Dumbledore, you know. He saw fit to leave when I told Dumbledore you were unwell.'

Harry murmured, 'I'll bet,' and his godfather chuckled. 'Sirius,' said Harry suddenly, 'why am I here?'

'Ah. Yeah, probably should have let you know by now. But, given the circumstances…' Sirius shook his head. 'Less than a week ago- we're not sure of the precise time, but Dumbledore estimates it to be about five days- the wards around your house started acting oddly.'

'Oddly?' Harry blinked. 'What do you mean?'

'I mean,' said Sirius quietly, 'that the blood protection Lily left in you stopped working as it should. Albus did not realise immediately- we would have come and gotten you earlier, if he had- it was not until a conveniently-timed scrutiny of the ward's strength yesterday afternoon that he realised. Thankfully, it was us who discovered it first.'

Harry's mouth had actually dropped open. 'But- _what_? Is that even possible?'

Sirius hesitated. 'Dumbledore seemed shocked. A member of the Order keeping tabs on Privet Drive noted no disturbances, but still he sent Lupin to collect you immediately.'

'How did it stop working though?' repeated Harry, and Sirius sighed.

'We're not entirely sure. Dumbledore has his theories, which he's keeping to himself- but he's doing a fair bit of recent into the matter, and I'm sure we'll work something out. In the meantime, at least you're away from the Dursley's for a bit.'

Harry forced a smile and fished about for another question his normal self would be likely to ask. 'Hey- before I- uh- came here, last night, Lupin showed me a piece of paper. He said I had to read it.'

'Oh, yes,' said Sirius, 'yes, he told me about that. Grimmauld Place, you see, is under protection of the Fidelius Charm. Dumbledore's Secret Keeper, and you couldn't enter without the information coming from him- he'd written the note.'

'Right,' said Harry. He hesitated. He'd collapsed last night upon arrival at Grimmauld Place, and Lupin was there, again, to pick up the pieces. Just like the Dementor on the train; here was another aspect of the magical world Harry didn't seem equipt for. Shockwaves of humiliation roiled through his body. What was wrong with him?

'Sirius,' he murmured, 'why did Apparation affect me like that?'

Sirius spilt some of his coffee down his front. He cleared his throat and waved away the mess with his wand. 'I'm- I'm not sure, Harry. I'm not sure how much you remember of last night- but Dumbledore, though concerned, didn't seem too phased. Luckily there is no need, for the present, for you to go Apparating anywhere. When the time comes for you to Apparate again, rest assured you will be kept under very close observation. You are-' he did a double take, 'you are feeling all right, aren't you?'

'I'm fine,' said Harry, not meeting his godfather's eyes.

* * *

Again, a hasty chapter- in retrospect I ought to have left it connected to the last one- but no matter. This needed to be written- I couldn't skim over the fact that Harry has no knowlegde of the Order- but rest assured this is the extent of the background information you're already familiar with. Now I can finally get into the story itself, so the next chapter mightn't be up for a couple of days. Also, I got some reviews- wow. I was quite shocked to realise people are actually reading this. Thank you, thank you so much. x


	5. Bloodshed

Despite being reuinted with his Godfather, Harry felt detached as ever. His dreams were plaqued with revisits to the graveyard, resulting in less and less sleep; upon waking from a nightmare he would stare into the tattered awning over his bed; stare past it and into oblivion. There he would lie, in that vegetative state til dawn. During daylight he was a puppet to the ever-present intertia, numb under its sway; it was second-nature to pretend he was okay, and Sirius was so pleased to have him around, he didn't appear to notice anything was wrong. But what was wrong? This Harry would contemplate as he traced the green vein which snaked beneath his forearm; whatever it was, it had intensified since his arrival at Grimmauld Place, and he was consumed by it. It was sadness; sadness so complete he could feel it in his bones.

Members of the Order flitted about the house at all hours- odd hours too, so that Harry's nightly reveries were disrupted by loudly-hosted conversations on the floor below. Worse still was the resident house elf Kreacher, who held every Order member in disregard. He would mutter under his breath as he cast filthy looks at those he deemed 'unworthy of the Noble House of Black'. Sirius took it in seemingly good humour, though Harry caught him aiming a kick at Kreacher once or twice.

Both Harry and Sirius were confined to the house, and so much time was spent with one another. Three months ago- less, even- Harry would have given anything to live with his Godfather. But now he was living as though through a fog; any emotion was muted- any emotion other than the physical weight of anguish. His smiles were empty, his laughter hollow, as Sirius regaled him with tales of his days at Hogwarts. They kept busy- the house was rife with all manner of flotsam and jetsam which hadn't been sorted since the turn of the century. Heirlooms and old socks alike were thrown into the garbage, only to be salvaged by a distressed Kreacher. This would lead to argument between master and house elf, which an able-minded Harry would have observed with mirth. Now, he felt nothing- nothing.

He'd been staying at Grimmauld Place for just under a week when Lupin announced over dinner- it wasn't unusual for two or three Order members to stay for meals- that he would be, for the time being, staying with Sirius. Harry offered an appropriate reaction, though the news was nothing to him; he excused himself, having taken a sip or two of the inaptly-prepared soup (Sirius wasn't much of a cook). Scaling the stairs, he didn't realise he was the lingering focus of his godfather's eyes. He just wanted to sleep.

Harry tossed and turned all that night, in a state of semi-consciousness and sickly dreams; at some point, he craved bloodshed. To prick through skin and drag blade through; to lick up fast-welling blood. The filleting knife was still at the Dursley's; fished out of the sink, presumedly, by a disgruntled Petunia. He wasn't meant to touch their things. She was mad. The blade was grasped in her hand, trickling with sudsy water, and she brandished it like a wand. She bought it whipping down, and Harry raised his arm to protect himself; an arm which was cut in twain, bloodless, all bone and skin. Her voice ran shrill in his ears. 'Never touch our things again. Didn't you learn from Cedric?' And she gestured to the corpse which was between them, had been this whole time, eyes wide as they were absent. Harry dropped to his side, shook him by the shoulder, cried out, screamed apologies into the night. Aunt Petunia had since morphed into Scabbers, who started to gnaw on Cedric's body. Harry batted the rat away, but more were coming, waves of them, and he was forced to watch as they feasted on his dead friend til he was nothing but a skeleton.

He was up at dawn, staring absently out the window as he fingered the scarring on his left forearm. A blade. He needed a blade. Bloodshed might stave off this emptiness. The opportunity presented itself in the form of his godfather's absence from breakfast- he was sleeping in, Remus explained, as he gulped down a mug of coffee. With a hasty apology his ex-Defence teacher was off on "Order business", promising to be back by afternoon, and Harry was slipped a silver blade into his pocket without delay- the depression was creeping back, prickling just behind his ribcage, behind his ears, an itch he couldn't scratch and he wanted to scream. He needed to see his own blood; he needed to be reminded of his own mortality. He was dying from the inside out; he might as well speed up the process.

Left forearm exposed, the knife fell again and again. He staggered against a chair, weakened immediately, and sank to his knees; the blade still cutting, as though out of his control. Through this frenzied self-torment, Harry felt sated. He felt at home- a home Sirius couldn't give him, a home Hogwarts could never amount coming, still more coming- dark scarlet seeping through his clothes, welling on the stone floor, and more was coming still; with a sigh of resign he allowed himself to fall forward, his mutilated arm trapped beneath him; if he could just sleep for a while, he could clean up before Sirius awoke; his eyelids were heavy and hot, his head miraculously clear. He slipped off into oblivion just as Remus re-rentered the room.


	6. Aftermath

Remus Lupin staggered against the door-frame; the boy was lying as though dead in a plethora of blood. He fell forward onto one knee and half-dragged himself towards Harry, cries for help strangled in is throat. With quaking hands he raised the boy into a half-sitting position and assessed his condition. His fingers closed around Harry's left wrist and he let out a shout. The boy definitely had a pulse- it was spurting, dark and strong, from an open wound!

'Sirius!' his voice shook as he traced the gash with his wand, incanting a healing spell to the best of his abilities. All the while Harry lay against him, oblivious; his face was ashen and his glasses fallen off. The most vital of the self-inflicted cuts was closed over, a lavender-hued furrow, and Remus ran a shaking hand over his face._ Harry had done this to himself._

'Remus, what's-' Sirius stood immobilized, staring down at his godson with some sort of tunnel vision.

When Remus spoke his voice was rough; closer to his werewolf form. 'Sirius, he- he did this to himself.'

Sirius stayed still for another half-minute; then he was by Harry's side, had lifted him like a child and was stepping toward the fireplace.

'Sirius- Sirius no, you'll be seen!'

'Don't- care-' Sirius's mouth barely moved; his face was almost as white as Harry's.

'Let me. Let me! Quickly, he's lost a lot of blood. He cut into an artery.'

Sirius faltered, and Lupin pressed his advantage by pulling Harry's dead weight into his own chest. He was light. Much too light.

'I'm sorry, Harry,' he muttered, and clutching a one-handed handful of Floo powder he cried; 'St Mungo's!'

* * *

Harry was taken from him upon arrival; magicked onto a stretcher and chased down a corridor by a team of hastily-assembled Healers. Remus sagged into the nearest chair, realising as he did so that a cold sweat had broken out over his brow. He wiped it with a still-shaking hand and took some deep breaths. _Harry had done this to himself._

He traced over the morning's incident, but it was as foggy in memory as it had been when he'd suffered through it. Harry, stretched out on the floor, face white, blood near-black. He'd reached for a pulse and felt live, oxygenating blood; struggled to recall a spell strong enough to keep that blood inside him. He can't have been out for too long- Remus hadn't been gone five minutes when he'd come back, his day-trip for the Order rendered unnecessary at Dumbledore's contact... _Dumbledore._

Subtly as he could, Remus murmured his Patronus- on the third go, by which time he'd managed to force Harry's helpless form from his mind's eye, his wolf-form Patronus stood blinking up at him. 'Albus. Harry's at Mungo's. He hurt himself. It's- it's not looking good.' His voice broke and he laid a hand over his eyes, motioning the Patronus off.

Remus settled into his chair and tried not to think. Minutes passed and Harry's face was still there, pale and unknowing as he bled out. If Remus hadn't come back, Harry would be dead by now- dead by his own hands.

But _why_?

He had been detached, certainly- they'd all noted that. He seemed distant, but he was functioning. It was well as could be expected, given the circumstances. He'd _cut into an artery_. This was no accident, this was a suicide attempt.

'Remus?'

Lupin jolted. Albus Dumbledore was beside him, assumedly having Flooed. His brow was knitted as he peered at Lupin over his half-moon spectacles.

'What happened, Remus?'

Lupin took a shuddering breath. 'Albus, he... he tried to kill himself.'

Dumbledore's gaze did not leave Lupin's face, but his eyes widened.

'Excuse me- you're the one who bought Mr Potter in?'

'Yes.' Lupin was on his feet, not having remembered standing- the Healer was male, dark-haired, and he was a lifeline at this point. 'What's happening? What- how is he?'

'Long-term physical damage has been avoided- he grazed past it, really. Besides the obvious blood-loss, he had also stopped breathing when he was bought in. We've spelled his lungs back into working order, but he's weak- very, very weak.'

Lupin resisted the urge to sink back into his chair. He was alive.

The Healer hesitated. 'As for the circumstances under which Mr Potter was injured- well, that's where the real concern comes in to play. Today he severed an artery, but for the past few weeks, I estimate, he's been inflicting harm on himself.'

'What?' Lupin whispered. Beside him, Dumbledore seemed to stiffen.

'That same arm is ridden with horrendous marks- even with the best care here, there'll be notable scarring. His apparent psychological state is... I've never seen such extensive self-harm. Today he made a very real attempt to end his life. We need to decide what the best course of care for him will be.'

'I would like to see Harry, please,' said Dumbledore softly. The Healer nodded.

'Of course. He is still unconscious, but you are welcome to go in.'

They were shown to a room with a single bed, upon which lay the Chosen One. His face was turned slightly to the side, his glasses still missing- maybe still on the floor at Grimmauld Place- and his left forearm was bandaged. He was so still, so pale; but for the shallow rise and fall of his chest, he might have been dead. Dumbledore stood by Harry's side, head bowed; Remus saw a tear run down into his beard.


End file.
